


Heavy Hands

by Ayulsa (execharmonious)



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: F/F, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/execharmonious/pseuds/Ayulsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shame of words overheard cuts deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy Hands

"Have you seen such a like as that one before?" The soldier jerked a finger towards her tent, his voice low but, unfortunately for her heightened senses, not quite low enough. "Girl like 'er, pampered and primped wi'in an inch of her life, thinks she can be our commander. Mayhap only blood she's seen in 'er life is 'er monthly curse." He cackled.

"Oh, she ain't so green, that one," another man countered. "You don't know who she is? That's the Empire's pet project, none other."

"What? The witch?" The first man's voice was a hiss.

"Na' the witch, you feckless 'alfwit. T'other one. Magitek Knight, she is, just like ol' clown-lips over on t'other side of that hill." He shook his head. "She's na' like us. She's magic. You better stay in step, if you know what's good for yer."

A third soldier piped up. "They say she ne'er so much as looked at a man, for all she's a pretty face. Say she's frigid as the Narshean sea."

"Frigid, huh?" the first man chuckled. "Bet as I can warm 'er up."

"Nah, she ain't t'be warmed," said a fourth. "She may look a pampered lass, but she's arms corded like steel, and that set in 'er eyes like she'd soon as kill yer as look yer over. That kind's na' fit for man na' beast."

Laughter ran through the whole camp then, despite their attempts to keep it down. "What, you think she's..." One of them made a side-to-side motion with his hand.

"I bet she's 'avin' it with the witch," said another. "Bet that's as why she's always screamin' in 'er cell at night."

"Bet she's found a new use for that slave crown, eh lads? They say as that witch'll set yer ass on fire, give 'er 'alf the chance. Gotta have some way to keep the beast tamed." Another round of laughter.

Celes huddled in her tent, all of fifteen years old, the words crawling over her like ants. She had only the vaguest idea of what they meant: yes, she understood _sex_ , in the mechanical sense, but of what that had to do with screaming, or slavery, she had no concrete notion. But she could tell it was ugly, this thing of which they spoke, and the ugliness hung in the air and seemed to seep into her pores, making her feel grimy and nervous and wrong.

She thought of the witch, and the strange feelings the witch's eyes stirred in her, and shame blazed through her at the mingling: her quiet, halting, careful feelings, shod in silk slippers, well-wrapped in layers of paper and snow; and these great greedy words like wicked knives, slicing through her daydreams of drifting light with the girl amidst flurries and flames, twisting and turning them awful and sour.

 _No, not like this--_ this wasn't how she'd love her, not with such heavy hands; but the images forced themselves into her thoughts, scattering her snow flurries, dragging them down to the hard, dark earth.

For some time after that, whenever the witch came to mind, so did their words; and so she began to avoid thinking of her at all, save in the times and places when she could not help it. In the dark corners of her dreams, in times of private release, the girl's face would return to her; and she would twist in her sheets from a burning feeling that was only half her shame, and try to hold the image as long as she could before the voices could snuff out its joy.


End file.
